


The Eagle and the Blacksmith

by Tiefgelegte_Hochstaplerin



Category: Assassin's Creed, Kingdom of Heaven (2005)
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-14 10:05:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4560519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiefgelegte_Hochstaplerin/pseuds/Tiefgelegte_Hochstaplerin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years before Altair is confronted with the events of the Third Crusade, he meets a man whose image and character he will never fully forget. - drafted encounters of a Syrian assassin and a French blacksmith</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. During night in Ibelin

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys!  
> Well...where do I start?  
> This story started because of a conversation on tumblr after I accidently found someone who also shipped Altair and Balian and was as excited about the idea of such a crossover as I was. Thing is, English is not my first language (as you will notice or already have) but I translated it anyway for my friend. So I thougt that I could use this circumstance to "expand" my fanfiction writing to English sites.  
> So this is actually a warning for you: English is my third language (though I speak it more often and therefore better than my second one) and the tenses and me never became friends even though I worked with a lot of charts. So you will propably crinch at all those mistakes. I apologise ahead for this.  
> At the same time, I will be happy if one of you may has a interest in becoming my beta? I would be extremely thankful!
> 
> Otherwise I have nothing to say for now other than: Have fun reading about the encounters of Altair and Balian, during a time when Altair is still barely more than a novice.

The blazing heat had given away to the cool night. The land was peaceful, just detached candle lights in a few houses. The wind brushed over the greening fields, a hardly noticeable rustling in the haulms and palm branches. A shadow perched on one of the roofs of the castle, melting in with the dark night sky in his back. He watched the faint light against the flagstones of the balcony under him. Silent, patient, until the man in the room would kill the light.

But soon a second shadow set over the light reflection and said man stepped out on the balcony. With measured steps he went to the balustrade, leaned himself against it and let his eyes wander across the sleeping land – his land. A quiet sigh slipped from his lips, Altair could see the tense and relax of his muscles under the white linen shirt.

The assassin has observed this man for three months now – an order taken directly from Al Mualim. His murders had become less and less, mostly taken place near Ibelin. But Altair was not here to kill the man, just to keep an eye on him and assess his character. His name was Balian, a French blacksmith, bastard son of the deceased baron Godfrey of Ibelin. A forsooth odd occurrence that the father had succumbed to an injury during his journey back to Jerusalem, shortly after confessing to his son.

Godfrey of Ibelin had been an appreciated man. He had been called fair, dutiful and a man with respect for all the religions. For the assassins, a man like him had meant another fighter for the freedom of the people; for the end of the crusades. His lost had worried Al Mualim because information about his son Balian were rare.

It has become Altair’s duty to confirm that he will act like his father. At the beginning Altair didn’t believed in a successful continuation. Balian seemed too young, too naïve. He had given himself over to the prejudice that Balian must be an arrogant French man; that he would feel the land not worthy enough. But Balian had disabused him with every day.

He built wells with a water systems for the fields, built the fertile land with his own hands and never complained about his common clothes to become dirty thereby. He let the people act out their religions to which they belong. He always behaves modest, polite and with respect. As often as he was outside (and that was most of the time), he had a friendly word or gesture for everyone without losing his status as their lord. Beside that he trained daily with his knights, losing even the last insecurities in fighting with a sword.

Altair often wondered where Balian took the strength from for his good deeds – for his balance in action and conscience. He never saw Balian praying. He listened to the prayers of the Moslem during sunrise but he wasn’t one. Rumor had it he didn’t believe in any God. His strength rested and came from within himself. And even now that he knew what to think about Balian, Altair hadn’t report to Al Mualim yet but rather watched over him as soon as he has heard that Guy de Lusignan incensed about him again.

“Are you here in order to kill me?” The sentence came so suddenly and unexpected that Altair couldn’t suppress the wince completely. Balian has spoken quietly as if he knew the secrecy Altair needed to wrap himself in. For a moment Altair considered to stay silent but it was obvious that Balian knew he was here and could hear him.

“Have you done something that deserves your death?” Altair countered, landing on the balcony without a sound. Balian didn’t look behind him, eyes glued to the little houses in the distance.

“Why don’t you tell me?” The amusement was clearly audible for Altair (Balian must knew that he was watching him for a while) and he didn’t know how to react to this calmness. Either he really believed that he was innocent or he was naïve enough to believe he was safe because he had spot Altair. But neither would fit to Balian’s character.

“You don’t seem to be afraid that I do so” Altair determined and slowly walked towards Balian.

“I acted as I thought it was right and fair. If you want to kill me, be aware that I will defend myself.” Altair stood a few feet beside Balian who finally turned towards him, posture open and unafraid. That was something Altair had learned about him, too. He never provokes an unnecessary fight but when there was no other chance due to different reasons he stood his ground. Something Altair appreciated.

Another thing Altair had learned regarding Balian was that his face possessed a placidness that neither the greatest seriousness nor his rare anger could erase completely. He was a handsome man who could captivate one very easily. However, Altair rarely saw him using this charm and if he did, it was never out of selfishness.

“I haven’t been given order to kill you. I should keep an eye on you and form an opinion” Altair said to set the lines. He doesn’t want to fight Balian or kill him. As he said it wasn’t his order.

“One man with mistakes is allowed to judge the mistake of another?” Balian asked. The question offended Altair’s pride as an assassin and so he replied instantly:

“We have a creed we follow. We see the world as what she is. Without all the lies. We want to free the Holy Land.” Balian gave him a skeptic look, averted his gaze to the unsettled distance of his land.

“So say these men. They say, their religion, their holy book and their way to see things is the right one. And they try to prove it by killing each other and bringing sorrow as well as suffering over the people. And they declare it the will of their God.” His voice was calm, serious and showed his disaffirmation. Altair had the urge to rebuke him for his words – they weren’t like these men – but he couldn’t find the words fast enough. Just in time he remembered that it was unwise to answer in a way that would give away too much about the assassins. Balian may be a fair-minded man but he wasn’t an ally yet and therefore not trusted.

“All we want is the end of the crusades, the wars of religion. The people should live in freedom again” he finally said.

“Free to live after their belief?” Balian looked at him again, his gaze still inquiring, still skeptic. Altair felt familiar with that. He couldn’t hold it against him considering the situation in the country.

Altair nodded. For a second he thought Balian would ask another question but he kept silent in the end so Altair turned to go. He should make his report to Al Mualim. He postponed it for too long by now. Right in the middle he stopped again and turned around to the baron who was following him with his eyes.

“Where does your strength to give these people peace come from?”

“What man is a man who does not make the world better?” Altair thought about that for a second. Not till then he opened his mouth again. He definitely had made up his mind about Balian: he would be greater than his father.

“The death of a man like you would be a great lost beyond repair for the people of this land. Peace be with you.” With this farewell Altair left the baron Balian of Ibelin over the roof. He still heard the faint “And with you.” then he had melted in the cool night that spread over Ibelin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you made it through and liked it.  
> I'm open for corrections and suggestions that help me improve my writing/translation.  
> Again, if you are interested in becoming a beta-reader for this fanfic, I will be more than happy.  
> Have a nice day <3


	2. Nocturnal Visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another step in the relationship of Altair and Balian.  
> Not beta read either.  
> And because the Hospitaller never got a name in the movie, I called him John...how creative...
> 
> Nothing more to say from my side than: Have fun reading :3

The castle of the baron of Ibelin silently lay there. Anew the night had settled over the flourishing land, besides the guards everybody was asleep. Everybody but the baron himself. Howbeit he had built the last well today and had helped the farmers a bit with the harvest cartload, he felt incapable of finding sleep. A sensation of uneasiness was seized with him since the sun had set.  
Balian visited the training yard, his father’s sword by his side. Almaric had showed him a few routines he could do on his own and Balian hoped it would distract his mind more than the paperwork. He had trained for a few minutes when he heard a soft footfall behind him. His body tensed though he didn’t turn around but pretended to put the sword down in order to take a break.  
He heard the sough of a second blade rather than seeing it but Balian hoiked his sword and let the blade carom. The man who led the blade wobbled a few steps back. “A good parry” the stranger complimented. The moonlight was caught in the white robe with the cowl.  
“You” Balian mumbled. He would never forget this man who appeared months ago on his balcony. The man pressed a hand against his shoulder and even in the inadequate light Balian noticed the dark spot. A light metallic smell crawled up his nose. “You’re hurt” Surprise gave away to concern.  
“It’s nothing” the man replied stiffly but Balian just looked at him sternly. As much he pulled himself together Balian knew the slightly unsteady stand. Pride wasn’t the best solution for this man right now.  
“Come to my chamber” Balian said and suggested to follow him. However the man raised his hand.  
“I’ll take a different way” And with that he climbed up the wall and through an arcade window. Balian could neither understand how somebody was able to move like this nor why somebody injured would do it. He rushed up the stairs and into his room. During that he already thought about what he should do if his unscheduled guest was injured worse than premised.  
In his chamber Balian pushed open the door to the balcony and not even a second later the man walked through it. His walk was upright and proud besides the struggle and Balian wondered how somebody with such an aura could have got to him unnoticed. The man sat down on the divan and Balian lit some candles. The shadow of the cowl deepened on the strangers face. Balian put his sword against the bed and approached the man who freed his arm from the robe.  
A bit blood ran down his shoulder, the wound even and deep. Balian examined it and noticed something in the wound – a broken piece of the weapon. The memory of his father’s death gave him a cold shiver but Balian pushed it aside. He couldn’t call an ordinary doctor. Not for a man who moved in the shadows. An odd luck that his father’s friend stopped by just yesterday and was asleep a few doors away.  
Balian rose to wake said friend up when a strong hand grabbed his arm. “Where do you think you’re going?” the man asked visibly keen. There was no fear in his voice but an undefined anger for which Balian didn’t know the reason.  
“I can’t treat your wound but a friend of mine. I’m going to wake him” Balian replied equally fearless. In his mind grew the idea to overwhelm this man before he could flee. He wouldn’t get far with his injury. The grip at his arm tightened. “I trust him” The words were spoken insistently, a promise. Balian felt the scrutiny of the man then his arm was released. Quietly and fast Balian ran to the Hospitaller.

Altair stayed behind, shrouded in flickering candlelight. Thankfully Balian had closed everything so nobody on the outside was able to see the suspicious guest. For one moment Altair considered escape. The more knew about his presence the more dangerous it was for him. On the other side he should have known that Balian couldn’t help him. He was a blacksmith not a doctor.  
With a frustrated sound Altair rubbed his forehead and tried to find out why he was here in the first place. Bad enough that a patrol had appeared that wasn’t scheduled. That he let them injure him was a shame. But it was a fact that there hadn’t been a trustworthy doctor far and wide, no assassin bureau and he would never have made it to Masyaf. It was an unforeseeable risk to put himself in the care of Balian but right now it was his only chance.  
Two persons came up to the door and Altair readied himself to fight his way free and disappear over the balcony in a pinch. Balian entered the room again; close on his heels was an older blond man wearing the robes of the Order of St. John. Altair didn’t know what to make out of it.  
“The injury better be worth the trouble if you have to wake me up so rudely” the Hospitaller said with a smirk and Altair suppressed the need to twist his mouth in irritation. Calmly he examined Altair’s wound while Balian stood a few steps aside and observed everything silently. Relaxed was a completely different matter.  
“It looks worse than it really is. No important bones or blood vessel were hit. I’ll pull the blade and a few days rest should do the rest” the Hospitaller finally announced. Altair could have imagined it but Balian’s face suddenly seemed to wear a relieved expression.

Balian watched how John pulled the blade and cauterized the wound. The man in white didn’t flinch or grimaced as far as Balian could see it. Just once a choked sound fell from his scarred lips otherwise he was silent. Balian must confess that he had been afraid at first that the assassin would use his blade because his whole posture showed how uncomfortable he was with the situation.  
John bandaged the wound at the end. “As said, a few days rest and you should be as good as new” he smiled and rose with a yawning. Balian accompanied him through the door. For one moment they stood still and watched the night sky above the court. Suddenly the Hospitaller’s face lightened with a smile.  
“What do you have in mind?” Balian asked in a whisper.  
“What I told you in Tiberias’ house about your actions as your worth for God. What worth is awarded you by this action” His gaze wandered to the door behind which Altair was. His words were spoken in his usual calm, amused nature with which he watched every event displayed before his eyes.  
“Then put your mind at rest for it’s not your decision to make” Balian replied in the same manner.  
“Forsooth, a relieve” John smiled waggishly. “Just one last thing before I go. Your father…he was of value for these men” With that he wished a good night and Balian returned in his chamber.  
Just in time because the assassin was already on his feet and about to open the balcony door. “Where do you think you’re going?” The man stiffened at his own words.  
“I thank you for your help but I can’t stay. It’s too dangerous” he explained.  
“Climbing up walls with this injury is completely safe.” The man turned around to Balian grabbing his sword.  
“What do you think you’re doing?” The assassin wanted to know, a snarl of irritation in his voice.  
“I’m coming with you until I can be sure that your wound has healed” Balian replied as if it was the normal matter of course.

Altair suppressed the frustrated noise. Balian wasn’t permitted to follow him. On the one hand, it would lead to the divulgement of strategic points of the assassins. On the other hand, could Balian bring them both in unnecessary danger. The brown eyes of his counterpart looked at him expectant. Altair came close.  
“Nobody is allowed to know about my stay” he said insistently, his breath touched Balian’s face. The Frenchman nodded and put his sword down again. They decided that Altair should sleep on a divan hidden behind a folding screen. It was not optimal due to the ornaments in the folding screen. Balian promised to forbid his servants to enter the room for the coming days. Nevertheless the assassin promised himself to disappear from this place as soon as his injury would allow it.

The following days were accompanied by cramped muscles, fitful sleep and Altair’s paranoia. The circumstance that his injury was bad enough to put him out of action for three days straight was no help for Altair’s mood. He felt like a caged animal. Balian kept calm enough to not irritate Altair more – he didn’t even reacted to the golden eyes he sometimes saw sparkling through the shadow of Altair’s hood.  
Altair saw Balian just in the morning hours as silhouette against the light coming through the opened balcony door while the call of the muezzin flew in the room; during the noon hours too hot to work outside; and in the evening when silence has fallen upon the land and Balian didn’t stay in his small study till late night. Around noon Balian always changed the bandages and Altair would have never expected the rough hands to be so careful.  
Most of the time, they stayed together in silence. Balian didn’t ask about the assassins or what they do. He was clever enough to guess that such knowledge wasn’t meant for him and that it would just complicate his life dangerously. Just once Balian brought a subject of close relation up when he changed Altair’s bandages on the second day and while washing the skin around the wound. he said: “You knew my father?” It was neither a straight question nor a straight assumption.  
“Your father was a great man. He fought for the peace we want” Altair replied and concentrated on Balian’s fingers applying salve on his skin.  
“He died from an injury like yours. A broken off arrow in his side. It inflamed” Balian’s voice got hoarse at the words, his eyes focused on the bandages in his hand – and the assassin understood. It explained the relief when the Hospitaller said he needed just a few days rest; the persistence that Altair stayed – out of fear the father’s fate would repeat on him. Altair didn’t know what to do with the feeling this discovery triggered in him. He remained silent and Balian put the fresh bandage on.

Another two days later Altair was able to move his arm enough to defend himself again and decided not to stay any longer. Al Mualim would demand answers where he had been and the Templar surely hadn’t been asleep the last week. It was high time to return to Masyaf.  
Since midday Altair hadn’t seen Balian and when the darkness spread over the land Altair readied. He knew where to find Balian. The baron would still be in his study. Months ago Altair had had enough time to study this habit of Balian to do his paperwork till late in the night.  
The castle lay in relatively silence. Here and there Altair heard a whisper from servants wishing each other a good night. Hidden by the shadows Altair sneaked off to Balian’s study. It was a small room, on the wooden table stood a lonely candle which illuminated a bunch of papers and letters. Altair never busied himself with the work a baron had to do but he didn’t envy Balian.  
Balian himself had fallen asleep over the paperwork. Low he lay in his chair, the head rolled on his chest, his breathing deep and relaxed. The brown hair felt in his face. A peaceful sleep which made him look like the man he had been raised to be – a simple blacksmith, free of worries about the Holy Land. Altair quarreled with himself if he should wake him. Balian would be worried when he wouldn’t find Altair in his chamber.  
For one moment Altair put forth his hand, giving in to the impulse to brush Balian’s hair out of his face. In the last moment he realized his action and dropped his hand. He killed the light silently.  
“Farewell, my friend. Peace be with you” Altair whispered into the darkness with nothing but papers to hear his words and disappeared into the night settled over Ibelin for a second time.


	3. The price we paid

The situation in Jerusalem became more and more tense. It wasn’t a secret that Salah ad-Din wasn’t too far away with his army; that he could be faster in front of the gates of the Holy City than everybody liked to believe. The behavior of the Knight Templars just added to the nervousness. Guy seemed to hope that he could kill the king with nerve-wracking courts, and talks with Salah ad-Din, instead of waiting for the leprosy to do so. Again and again he secretly gave instructions to disturb the peace, to molest and even kill non-Christians. The proconsul Raymond III. and king Baldwin IV. struggled for control and peace every day anew.

In retrospect, Altair should have expected the events but the assassins also needed to act more frequently. He found out that Balian had followed an invitation from Raymond III. when it was on the verge of being too late.

 

Since Altair’s involuntary stay in Ibelin three months had passed. The assassin sat on a roof, watching how the light made the whole city look golden. The brightness of the house walls brought up the familiar memory of Balian’s silhouette against the morning light. This image haunted him since he had returned to Masyaf. At first, he had dismissed it as imagination; a trick of his own mind because after the days at Ibelin he expected to see nothing else when opening his eyes. The longer it lasted the more irritated he became. When it even started to appear at random associations, he became angry because he couldn’t explain it. In the end, the reason was simple:

Balian was a fascinating man. Altair had never met someone like him somewhere else. His naturally calm, good-natured manner which seemed to be the opposite to his deep rooted fighting will; careful touches from rough hands; soft brown eyes which kept secrets deep inside. Altair was fascinated by Balian, baron of Ibelin.

“Altair” The called one looked up and into the face of a novice he just had finished a mission with. “Quick! The Templar are planning an assassination of a baron. They want to attack him on his way to the market.”

 

Although the sun shone down sedulously, the main ways of the city were nearly overcrowded. Balian was moving via some less used side-alleys which were shady due to their narrowness. Jerusalem flourished with life, despite the menacing shadows, and Balian found peace in the hectic rush of the market, the familiar and foreign aromas. The days in his village seemed stale in contrast to it, although Balian often wished back the simplicity.

Silently he stood in a side-alley and watched the people. It calmed his agitated thoughts. In compliance with the promise to his father, Balian was loyal to the king – he was it unsolicited and he respected both the greatness and the burden the young man bore. But never had he wanted to become involved in the court’s problems or better: the court’s policy – at least not to this extent. Uneasiness settled in his stomach when he just thought about the topics that would surely be spoken of at today’s dinner with Raymond.

He sensed the danger before he saw or heard it – an unmistakable sense that came with fighting. Quickly he turned around trying to move back from the attacker. An acute pain suddenly spread through his left arm and shoulder, had him tumble what saved him from the second sword strike.

Balian faced five shabby dressed mean whose neat weapons didn’t match their attire. The first attacker struck again when Balian dove out of the way and hit him with his unharmed fist in the face. Although the pain from the injury flashed through his body, Balian didn’t think about to surrender easily. Again and again he hit the attackers’ vulnerable points until he was unconscious.

Before Balian even could worry about the other men, two shadows jumped between those. His gaze met a pair of golden eyes which looked back as surprised as he felt. Distracted the assassin didn’t notice the man that rushed forward with a dagger, and for a second Balian thought he would kill the assassin. But suddenly the attacker lay on the ground and the assassin pressed a hand against his mouth.

Barely after the assassins got rid of the attackers, hasty footsteps were heard. A few pedestrians had seen the fight from the main road and the resulting tumult had alarmed some of the town watch. Balian’s rescuers disappeared and the pain came back. When Balian pressed his hand against the wound, the blood stuck warmly to his hand.

 

The injury at his upper arm wasn’t severe but it relieved Balian of the duty to dine with Raymond. Instead a servant brought him a tray with food as well as some salve and bandage. When he was alone again Balian fell back into the divan. His mind wandered back to the side-alley and the man with the white hood – back to the stranger who was an unsteady constant in his life since a few months.

In the past three months Balian sometimes had caught himself prospecting for men with white hoods. It was forlorn hope, after all someone like this stranger knew how to make himself nearly invisible. He didn’t even left a name for Balian.

A shadow scampered through the window and Balian startled into an upright position…just to see a familiar figure with a white hood. For a moment they stared at each other in silence then the nameless moved forward with moderate steps. “What are you doing here?”

The other paused shortly in his movement before he answered: “The Templars might plan a second attack. We need to make sure that you stay unharmed.” He was standing beside the table of the divan and Balian saw how his lips were set in a tense line. His eyes stopped at the bright red cut wound and guilt arose.

“Why did you saved my life?”

“I told you already that your death would be a great lost.”

“But when you fought the Templars you didn’t know it was me.”

“That is irrelevant. The Templars wanted you dead. We want you alive.”

“So you just followed orders.” The Nameless made a fist. When Balian saw this, he started anew: “Excuse my words. Because of you I got away with an injury. You have my gratitude.”

 

“You’re hurt?” Altair had tried to use his work as excuse for his presence; to persuade himself that there was a danger for a second ambush. However, Balian’s words revealed that personal motives stood in the way and he needed to admit that his visit had nothing to do with the order. The baron nodded wordless. Now Altair noticed the salve and bandage on the table.

“Let me see.”

For a second Balian hesitated before he stripped the shirt of and revealed an already bloody bandage around his upper arm. Without another word Altair seated himself beside Balian and took off the bandage after Balian turned halfway towards him. He noticed how Balian’s eyes followed his every movement.

It was careless – this trust between them. Altair should have disappeared out of Balian’s life when he was first spotted by him on the roof. But then he had been injured, so the baron had taken care of him. And now the roles were reversed.

Altair tried to keep his gaze on the arm but when he slightly looked to the side, he could see a few finer scars on Balian’s torso. Balian noticed his faltering hands and Altair concentrated even harder on the injury he treated. Why was it so deep? How could the Templar’s sword have hit him unhindered? Didn’t Balian knew what he exposed himself to with his staying in Jerusalem? He went out like he was used to it in Ibelin – without any protection under his clothes.

“You should have worn some kind of protection.”

“What for?”

“A man in your position with the king has enough enemies. You are no longer in Ibelin but in Jerusalem”, Altair gave back heated.

Balian didn’t respond and silence fell over them. Altair’s eyes were glued morosely to the wound he bandaged up. Conciliatorily Balian’s head fell against Altair’s shoulder and not till Altair felt the weight, his body relaxed. What has come over him? It was careless…

“How’s your name?”

“Altaïr.” Care…less?

“Altair…” Balian’s European tongue couldn’t bent around the letters like she should. Altair let go of Balian’s freshly bandaged arm and the baron sat upright again. The smile on his lips was apologizing. With the years Altair had become used to the fact that Europeans were unable to pronounce his name correctly.

Without knowing why, Altair’s gaze landed on Balian’s hand which lay quiescent in his lap. Altair reached out with his fingers, and ran them over the skinned knuckles. It felt like yesterday that these hands had treated his wounds. French hands that gave a foreign estate new life. Balian let Altair turn his hands over and the fingers danced over the rough hands. Carefully.

Balian slightly bent his own fingers, also touching Altair’s palm. Altair sat still. Lightly Balian ran his finger over the stump of the ring finger. “Was this the price?” he asked with a low voice.

“For what?”

“Your deathly blade.”

Altair nodded and Balian mimicked. “What was the price for your sword?”

Balian lowered his gaze, reflecting. His eyes felt on the still scared spot on his right hand. “He stole my wife’s necklace, and I pushed him into the fire of my forge”, he confessed.

“Is she waiting for you?” Altair asked, Balian looked at him confused. “Your wife.”

“No.”

 

Altair stayed until Balian went to bed. They didn’t spoke another word with each other but Altair never forgot the warm look the baron gave him when Altair took a French leave through the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter as well :3
> 
> I don't know when I will finish the fourth part because it's so hard to write a dialogue between Altair and Balian, plus this time they will have some kind of fight so....I'm really really lost. But the rest of the chapter is already written down and will just need a few adjustments according to how the fight goes. So I hope I will find the spark of creativity and motivation for the dialogue as soon as possible before university stress has me back.  
> So please excuse if there isn't a new chapter for a bit^^"


	4. My Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I noticed that instead of Tiberius I wrote Raymond all the time. I actually don't want to change it now, because his real name actually is Raymond III. and Tiberius the name of one of his properties. Ridley Scott also named him Raymond first but because people confused Raymond and Reynald all the time, he gave him the name Tiberius after his property.  
> So please note:  
> Raymond = Tiberius

With energetic steps Balian reached his room in the Jerusalem estate; confusion and irritation making him rush. He lit a few oil lamps as if they could shine a light on what just had happened. He didn’t know what he should be more shocked about: that the king wanted to name him his successor even at the cost of killing Guy. That the king wanted to override the Christian vow of marriage in form of killing Guy in order to remarry Sibylla. Or that Raymond expected from Balian to accept all that.

The king accepted his decision to refuse. But the rigid silver mask left Balian in the dark about his real acceptance, the blind and the going blind eye just as expressionless. However, Raymond’s look he could interpret just too well. “You are your father’s son.” The resignation and the grief, as if Balian would be facing his soon end.

It irritated him, it confused him, but Balian didn’t has time to get to the bottom of the actual emotion behind it when somebody entered through the window. Balian didn’t need to see the face under the white hood to know that Altair was enraged.

“Why did you refuse?” His tone dripped with angry incomprehension – more anger than Raymond due to his young age. Balian had thought that if somebody would be able to understand him then it would be Altair who was following his own oath loyally. But didn’t he thought that of Raymond too? The words of his father, spoken shortly before his death, flitted around in his head.

“I swore to protect the king. And when he’s dead, the people.”, he repeated out loud.

“The position of the king would let you do exactly that. And Guy de Lusignan is a threat to not just the people of Jerusalem, isn’t he?” Balian understood what Altair was trying to do. Just like Raymond he wanted to change his mind, urging him to act after every moral but his own.

“I will not be the cause for a massacre. And even if, my position would become more void than without. A massacre under Christians and an unchristian marriage would be enough for the court to not acknowledge me.” Balian felt how all the hours of court politics with Raymond spoke out of him. He didn’t want to explain himself again. His own moral beliefs didn’t seem to be something others deemed important.

“There were just a few sovereigns who came to power otherwise.”, Altair uttered and Balian waved aside. He wasn’t other sovereigns. He wasn’t a sovereign. He was barely a knight. All he had proof of was that he was a black smith – left by God – who had wanted to give his wife her rightful place in heaven.

Altair seemed unsatisfied with the silence, unwilling to give in this easily. “We can protect you.” We. The assassins. Another group in the Holy Land. Everything Balian knew about them was that they killed and manipulated. Just as dubious and plotting. Balian was tired of this, it made him uncomfortable. As if his free will was stolen, the gift from God to mankind. But this opinion wouldn’t count for Altair.

“Do you control the interests of the nobles? Their influence on the people, the whole court? How long until their self-interest will pit against me, Altair?” Balian didn’t get better in the name’s pronunciation. He would have tried but events had come thick and fast. His eyes looked at the frowning mouth under the white hood. A sting that reminded him why he didn’t want the protection of the assassins. “You already have a scar on your mouth and I am not even king.”

“That is my life. I am an assassin. It is my duty.”

“But not mine!” It was the first time Balian raised his voice against Altair. But the anger in his eyes gave way to fatigue, he ran his hands through his hair. “Please leave.” Balian turned around. He didn’t want to stay here any longer. His estate smothered him. He needed space and time to process everything and think about it.

But Altair remained standing, his gaze burning holes in Balian’s back. “You simply go? You flee from your responsibility?” Balian shook his head. He tried not to think about why Altair’s lack of understanding hurt more than Raymond’s.

“My soul is my responsibility”, he just said and left the room. He needed to get away from here. To Ibelin. Or some place in the deserted areas around it.

 

Altair watched Balian go through the door – stunned. Of course the assassins had heard about the offer from the king. Even the private or verbal correspondence between the king and his right hand (or between the king and his sister) weren’t a secret for the assassins. They had relied on Balian accepting. It would have solved so many problems – on both sides.

Not willing to give up just yet Altair followed. Balian had started to saddle his horse. He wanted to flee. Altair scurried into the shadows of the stable and observed every move from Balian. His expression was tight and shut off, the shadows painted his face in a hard way. Every hand move showed restrained anger…or the inner urge to get away. Altair knew that Balian knew: once in Ibelin he would have control over himself and his visitors. He would be able to free himself from disruptions by Raymond or others – maybe he would even manage to avoid Altair.

Just the second Altair wanted to go out of the shadows to use the maybe last chance to talk to Balian, the gate to the inner court flew open and three horsemen rushed in. Altair recognised Sibylla, Balian did too. The princess approached Balian with energetic steps, her face marked with disbelief. She kissed Balian’s cheek, held his face in her hands. But Balian reciprocated nothing of this intimacy.

“Who are you to refuse a king?” Sibylla spoke quietly but Altair stood near enough to hear her words when he concentrated. “I will have power with or without Guy. Guy isn’t dead at your say-so, or my brother’s, but at mine.”

“Do you have any idea of Jerusalem except that it is yours?” The averseness to this thought was evident in Balian’s voice. His rumoured intimate relationship with the princess didn’t seem to make him blind for her views. He thought in a pragmatic kind of way, never showed signs of his action being overly controlled by his emotions – and Altair started to believe that this had saved Balian so war. “You will never hold it in peace as your brother did. It will be war.” Sibylla obviously didn’t want to hear this truth.

“My grandfather took Jerusalem in blood. I’ll keep it the same way, or any way I can. I am what I am. I offer you that. And the world.” She leaned forward, wanted to persuade Balian with a kiss. But Balian turned his head up, dodged her attempt definitely. Altair ignored the relief that washed over him.

“You say no.” Sibylla seemed surprised, desperation shortly flaring up in her eyes.

“Do you think I’m like Guy? That I would sell my soul?” The disgust and the betrayal shone through, became a cold mask on his face.

Sibylla shied away from him, this time in silent horror. On the way to her horse she turned a last time. “There’ll be a day when you will wish you had done a little evil to do a greater good.” She said it with a fateful voice like a prophecy but Balian didn’t budge. Silently he watched how she left the court – and with her the last attempt to persuade him.

Shortly after that Balian rode off the estate towards Ibelin. Altair stayed in the shadow, his mind working. Now, out of a charged conversation, calm settled to think about Balian’s words. Altair always assumed that Balian didn’t appendant to a religion, just like Altair. But now he came to understand that Balian did have a religion. If he practiced it or not, his mind, his morals and his decisions were shaped by Christianity in a way Altair had rarely seen. His averseness to undeserved material possession, his argument about his own soul and his free will. How could Altair have been so blind?

 

Balian didn’t waste a word when he reached Ibelin the next night. The whole ride Raymond’s eyes and a silver mask followed him. The startled stable boy came running and took care of his horse. Balian retreated into his room. The anticipated feeling of physical security didn’t came.

Without paying attention where he threw them, Balian took of his clothes and fell on his bed, pulling the sheet over himself. The darkness of the night surrounded him while he looked at the ceiling. His thoughts swirled around in his head, diffuse due to the mix of anger, disappointment and betrayal in him.

How could Raymond – the friend of his father – demand from him to act against conscience? How could he renounce what his father viewed as the first duty of a knight? How could he ask the same from Balian? He had sworn to protect the people when the king was dead. Was this so difficult to understand? And was it so hard to understand that Balian didn’t want to act against his moral?

How could Sibylla believe he would sell himself for the physical closeness of woman who didn’t seem to know more than her royal rights? Who didn’t see more than her royal blood and wealth? How could she assume so easily that he would turn against his oath voluntarily like Guy had done – for power. But maybe he couldn’t blame her. Her son would inherit a kingdom on the edge of a war, saddled by hatred and fanaticism; a kingdom that now wouldn’t be under Sibylla’s guiding hand alone but also under Guy’s and his knighthood. How could he blame her to want something better for her son? He meant more to her than Balian did.

Much more hurt Altair’s lack of understanding. Sure enough, he knew little about the assassin. And their oaths were most likely different but…was he mistaken by believing to feel a connection? An understanding beyond words? Maybe he should have expected that in the end Altair would be an assassin, placed in his political surrounding and gave himself up to it; that he followed orders. And yet he had hoped that he had found somebody else who understood the burden of the free will.

Dark clouds covered Balian’s thoughts, weighing down on his chest. Was he himself mistaken? He soul-searched in the nearing shadows of his bedroom; thought he could see the outlines of the Dance of Death on the wall though he knew it wasn’t possible. There was no God he could plea and pray to for an answer or strength. Alone he was; needing to rely on himself for the answer he looked for.

Since the death of his beloved wife and their child – since God has left him – there was nobody he could turn to. His father he got to know for a too short time, Jean stayed in his political abeyance. Raymond and Sibylla who saw him as nothing more than his father. When he looked back, what answers had he found on his way? The words of the blacksmith who raised him engraved in the crossbeam of the forge. His oath of chivalry, taken and adopted when his father died. It never needed more to lead him through quarrels and difficulties.

Balian reached for both things as if they were the saving hand to pull him out of the stormy sea; as if they were the prayer for strength he couldn’t say to God. He clenched his hands in the sheet, searching for a physical hold. A fear of unknown origin haunted him. Raymond would turn his back on him. And Altair, his silent always near shadow, would vanish. The king, the only one who understood his thoughts, would go to God who didn’t know Balian anymore. Sibylla would reign in place of her son, and as Guy’s wife. Balian would stand alone again against whatever the world wanted from him.

Tighter his hands dig into the cloth before he turned on his side, determined to bury these thoughts for now. He had his answer and the coming weeks to think about all this emotions inside him. With closed eyes he waited for the overpowering sleep that should arose from his exhaustion.

But nothing happened. Balian lay there, staring at the endless blackness behind his eyelids. Everything was too loud, too disturbing, startling his thoughts again and again and again. The rustling of the cloths in the night wind, the creaking of settling wood, his own breathing, even his own heartbeat, his under pain and loneliness groaning ribcage. He already had been at this point once and he didn’t wanted to go there again.

Then there were quiet footsteps and one of cloths rustled suspiciously. Balian opened his eyes, looked blankly over at the tall figure which stepped into his chamber. Tiredly Balian watched Altair. He didn’t want to hear another word about going back; about breaking his oath and becoming king. About completely corrupt his already uncertain salvation. But Altair remained silent, came closer and sat on the edge of the bed. “I misunderstood you.” His voice was quiet and deep in the night.

Balian recognized the hidden apology. He was aware that Altair still was a little mad at him. But he gave him credit for trying to understand Balian’s point of view. And for coming to him. For not leaving him alone in this situation. The groaning of his ribcage stopped and Balian didn’t find words for the feeling in him.

Altair looked at him, seemed to search for something in Balian’s eyes. The touch of his hand on Balian’s arm raised a goose bump. Altair linked their fingers, averted his gaze and stared in front of him. Yeah, he was mad. But he left Balian his freedom. For a moment Balian pictured Altair pouting in the shadow of his hood like a child. He smiled, the weight of the darkness in his room lifting.

Lightly he squeezed Altair’s hand before closing his eyes. Altair’s presence took away his fear of loneliness. The restless thoughts kept under control in Altair’s hands. Balian still felt Altair’s thumb caressing his hand, then the ride and emotional commotion took its toll and Balian felt asleep.


	5. Worlds

  
  
The heat and dust of the battle still lingered over Jerusalem at sun down but between the ruins of the city the people celebrated the best they could. They were saved, they had survived! Baron Balian of Ibelin had saved them from the bloodshed. Altair observed their jollity for a while. One week and none of these people would be here anymore, disappear towards the sea and other Christian principality.  
  
It seemed like a miracle to Altair. All groups had pressed Salah ad-Din to the bloodshed; lusted for it. For them it had been part of the promise to recapture Jerusalem. It should have been the revenge for the blood bath 100 years ago. Altair expected a bad repercussion after Salah ad-Din’s generous offer to let them go. But until then Altair had time. The other big man of the battle was important now.  
  
It wasn’t hard to find Balian. The bombardment mainly hit the outer parts of the city wherewith Balian’s estate remained undamaged – he would be there. A group of euphoric and also drunkards had begun to sing a chorus of praise on the “Defender of Jerusalem”. The court of the estate was open for Balian’s knights and the wounded. A few Hospitaller walked tirelessly between everybody, helping where they could. Servants gave out the food and drinking they could find. Altair decided to take the way over the roofs as always.  
  
Candles and oil lamps lightened the room which irritated Altair at first. Then he saw Balian with bare chest in front of a Hospitaller cleaning, stitching and bandaging his wounds. The recent ones arose from the fight against Guy de Lusignan whom Balian left behind beaten in the dyer’s alley. Altair was sure Guy wouldn’t live much longer – somehow or other. A few minutes after the Hospitaller had left the room and Balian had begun to extinguish most of the lights Altair entered the room.  
  
Balian’s face took on a surprised expression before he came to a hold a few steps in front of Altair. For a second Altair thought Balian was going to try to hug him but Balian simply laid his hand on Altair’s shoulder. It was a welcomed weight.  
  
“You are here.” Surprise and relief spoke out of Balian. But nothing could drove the exhaustion off his face. Ten days of fighting and hoping, of harming Salah ad-Din enough to set conditions. Balian had been victorious but he also paid the price.  
  
Altair nodded. “I stayed with my brothers in the city when the Christian army marched against Salah ad-Din.”  
  
“Did you fight?”  
  
“It was forbidden to fight as long as the Order is not in danger. We reside further inside the city.” Shortly Balian’s grip got firmer, a smile flew over his lips. Altair’s eyes slid over the bandages and scrapes. Some of the upcoming scars may would hurt from time to time but otherwise Altair couldn’t see anything that would cause permanent damage to Balian. He was relieved.  
  
Balian signalled Altair to sit on the divan while he slipped over a shirt. His movements betrayed the fatigue in his bones to Altair. Altair could imagine it. In the fleeting moments of observing Balian in the chaos of the siege, his armour always had rested heavy on his shoulders. The fight after the breakthrough of the wall had been long and relentless, not a second Balian could afford to put his sword down. Altair’s eyes scanned the room and found the weapon. It lay on the bed. One of the rubies in the pommel was missing.  
  
“When do you leave again?”  
  
“When it’s certain where I will be needed next.” He always was needed. But Balian could only begin to fathom that. Balian sat down beside Altair, their legs touched. In the silent Balian pulled a clay bowl over the table towards them. Altair grabbed a date, Balian an orange. Carefully the scratches-laced hands peeled the fruit, all senses focused solely on it. For one moment Altair felt the careful, attentive touches from Balian’s hands against his shoulder again. He averted his gaze.  
  
Besides all his visits here, he seemed to fully notice the room just now – the oil lamps and candles, the fine clothes, the ornaments on walls and furniture. The dissonance jumped out at him suddenly. An unornamented clay bowl, simple linen clothing and an orange. This man next to Altair – who represented his own peaceful world with his simplicity in all the luxury – this man should have forced Salah ad-Din to make terms of surrender a few hours ago; should have defended a whole city thought lost with nothing but the help of its residents?  
  
The realisation that this – the estate, Jerusalem, the Holy War with religious fanaticism – wasn’t Balian’s world came down devastatingly on Altair. The feeling of heading towards something inevitable struck him. Forgotten lay the date in his hand. “Where will you go now?”  
  
Balian didn’t look right away at Altair, spared him the shame over his dull sounding voice. “To France. To my village.” Altair got cold in his stomach and he cussed at himself silently.  
  
“And Ibelin?”  
  
“Almaric will take good care of it. It’s the land of his family.” Balian offered him half of the orange in a wordless apology. Altair starred before taking it. Balian’s hand were rougher than the last time and their fingers twitched towards each other. Their shoulders touched.  
  
“In all this time”, Balian started to speak and every breath hit Altair’s hood, “I’ve never seen your face.” The smile on his lips was careful, nearly shy. The silent doubt if he went too far out on a limb with that.  
  
Altair didn’t move, starred at the table. Instinctively he searched for reasons why he shouldn’t reveal his face to Balian. It was dangerous, it was wrong – so the creed; so Altair’s understanding of the world. But this wasn’t his world bound to the assassins. It was his and Balian’s world consisting of private moments like this one.  
  
Orange and date lay on the table when Altair pulled off the hood. The feeling of nakedness and vulnerability flared up before they subsided with the next breath. Balian’s face was directly in front of his when he turned the head and looked at him with golden eyes. Balian’s breath that wandered over his lips and cheek. Balian’s gaze that gently flew over him – over his dark brown hair, his golden eyes, his nose and the scar on his lips.  
  
The smile on Balian’s lips was soft, not surprised or bewildered. Altair didn’t expect this but any reaction to his unnatural eyes or his comparatively young age that Balian had to notice. Instead Balian looked him in the eyes, openly. What did they do here? It was dangerous. It was wrong.  
  
Slowly Balian lifted his hand to Altair’s face, not out of fear for the hidden blade but to avoid Altair’s studied reflexes. His fingertips pricked against Altair’s skin before the whole hand lay warm against his cheek. Balian’s thumb traced the scar, in his eyes thankfulness and sadness mixing. Altair’s breath hit against Balian’s skin. What happened was wrong…wasn’t it?  
  
“Stay till morning.” The request was just a breeze between them but it rang all the louder in Altair’s ears. A request? A natural continuation of their former meetings, really. Altair nodded. Balian closed the small space between them and as a statement of his gratitude he kissed the scar over and under Altair’s lips. He didn’t do what Altair’s mind labelled wrong. But Altair wondered if he himself would have disrelished it.  
  
  
  
  
The clay bowl was empty when the silently stripped their clothes off and killed the lights. The noises of the dying celebration from outside floated in, even Balian’s court got quiet. Altair had sat on Balian’s bed in Ibelin, had offered him protection. Now they lay under the sheet in Jerusalem facing each other.  
  
Balian fought against his heavy eyelids, didn’t want to take his eyes from Altair. This one night was all that was left for them before they had to bid farewell. The darkness never had been as welcomed as now. Altair had the advantage that his eyes were better with the night than Balian’s, and so he observed Balian for a bit.  
  
How the stress and strains of the past days buried in his face. How it didn’t lost his softness beside this. How the wide cut on his cheek stood red against his skin and soon would be nothing more than a scar. How Balian blinked against the night and fatigue while his eyes got used to the dark. How his hair fell in his neck and slowly slid into his face. How a peaceful calm spread over his face when Altair’s hand stroke the strands back with a gentle whisper from the cloth – giving in to the urge from Balian’s office so long ago.  
  
Balian took Altair’s hand, interwove their fingers and put them on the bed. His thumb stroked over Altair’s while he gazed at their hands. With sunrise it would all be over. With sunrise he would need to gain strength and protection from within himself again. But for the moment, for this night, Altair was with him. His companion in the shadows and a firm constant in all the chaos around him.  
  
Altair observed how Balian bend forward and breathed a kiss on Altair’s finger. “Thank you, Altaïr.“ And while Balian slipped into sleep, the correct pronunciation of his name let Altair shiver. It tugged painfully in his chest.  
  
“I have to thank”, he mumbled breathlessly in the silence. Balian’s finger held Altair’s tighter and with a little smile against the painful tug Altair let himself glide into the warm intimacy. Their bodies drifted towards each other as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And as long as the slept, they could let it happen.  
  
  
  
  
With the morning came the bitterly cold reality. Balian kept his servants out of his room before he smiled at Altair. Without a word they washed themselves with the rose water from the previous day, washed off the feeling of warm skin. They dressed, put on their separated worlds – forever.  
  
Balian helped Altair with the few and simple fastenings of his clothes, with the belt, and Altair let him. His hands rested on Balian’s shoulder. Like that they finally stood in front of each other while the the city woke up, streets filling with people. Departure. Farewell.  
  
Again Balian gave him a smile, warm and unrepentant. He had taken what Altair had been ready to give him, and he was grateful. His hand slid up Altair’s hood, started to pull it on him. Altair’s hands stopped Balian with a grip at his wrists. He wasn’t unrepentant. And it was selfish, dangerous and wrong.  
  
It twitched and pulled in his chest and even if he understood why, he didn’t understand the how. How it had come like this. What had he done wrong? “Altaïr…“ Again he shivered. That was what he had done wrong. But looking at it closely, right and wrong had become null. What was clear was how he much hated the thought of not taking an opportunity. Determined he looked in Balian’s eyes and leaned forward, his lips pressing against Balian. Content with the response. Unrepentant.  
  
His hood took its rightful place, Altair and Balian nodded. “Peace be with you”, Altair said when he disappeared through the window. He heard the “And with you” then he vanished over the roofs. And with every step he banished the now memories deeper in himself. It lost its importance. It would hold him back. The only thing that clung to his every fibre (and something he would for long years misinterpret until Balian’s face would appear gently as itself in his memories again) was one sentence.   
  
“My soul is my responsibility.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this little voyage of Altair and Balian's companionship.  
> Dialogues costed me a lot of nerves but I am content with the result. Thanks goes out to all those who left kudos and words of encouragement. I've never taken on a project before where I actually chose hard to write characters and got as serious as I got with it.  
> Please feel free to comment on your opinion of the story.  
> Otherwise, I wish you all a nice week, lots of health, luck and love.  
> Yours truly.


End file.
